


Birds do it, Bees do it

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: Episode: s02e22 The Velvet Jungle, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the only clean shirt left is exactly the right shirt to wear. Originally published in the zine Here with You.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds do it, Bees do it

Thinking back, Hutch put the blame squarely on the yellow and black striped shirt. How was any intelligent person supposed to concentrate when his partner was posed against Captain Dobey's door wearing a shirt like that?

Used to Starsky in basic blue or the occasional printed tee, the yellow and black torso hugging soccer shirt was like some kind of aphrodisiac Hutch hadn't previously encountered. It buzzed around his brain, distracting him, sending thoughts of picnics, pollination, and all sorts of natural activities.

Instead of listening to Dobey's analysis of the case, Hutch kept sneaking glances at Starsky centered in the door frame like some old world masterpiece. A curly-haired god just off Olympus and garbed like an outrageous bee.

A provocative bee.

Hutch felt all swelled up, as if he'd already been stung. He crossed his legs gingerly, to hide any embarrassing evidence, and focused on what Paco Ortega was saying. It was just damned good luck that he and Starsky had to part ways to get ready for their street performances because if Hutch had to look at him in that shirt any longer, he was going to give into certain—animalistic, or perhaps insectoid instincts, to be precise—and hump a certain partner right there in the Metro police department hallway.

Gratitude didn't even begin to describe his feelings when Starsky transformed from bee into Charlie Chaplin for their undercover operation as street mimes. Because Charlie Chaplin wasn't Starsky, and Hutch wasn't incredibly, astonishingly turned on by the silent film star.

Catching the murderer, dealing with Starsky's sprained ankle, and the enormous pile of paper work any arrest generated more than diluted the lustful thoughts Hutch had harbored. By the time he and Starsky were ready to leave, it was after midnight, and they were both exhausted.

And Starsky had a date.

"Laura wants to take me to Martinelli's, she knows the owner," Starsky said, his jaw making a distinct cracking sound as he yawned. He shoved the yellow and black shirt into a carry-all, still clad in Charlie Chaplin's baggy suit pants and a white shirt.

"Tomorrow night?" Hutch asked, examining his face in the tiny locker door mirror. He had streaks of white mime paint on the side of his nose. And even though he'd wiped it off twice with the baby oil Sally Hagen had loaned him, the ghostly imprint of the black tear drop under his right eye still remained. "Why didn't you tell me I still had white make-up all over?"

Starsky stared at him, squinting a little. "Didn't notice. You look the same as you always do."

For whatever reason, the answer irritated Hutch. "And that is?"

"Like some…" Starsky shrugged, shouldering his bag. "God. You're perfect, all blond, tall and blue eyes. Isn't that what all the girls go for?"

Surprised and pleased, Hutch didn't let it show. He had to maintain his usual demeanor or drown in Starsky's dark blue eyes. "And yet, Laura wants to date _you._ "

"Yeah, guess she likes tall, dark and handsome." Starsky winked again and spoiled it with another huge yawn.

"You're not all that tall," Hutch threw back.

"It's the quality, not the quantity that counts," Starsky said with justifiable smugness.

Hutch laughed. "You ready to go?" he asked, running his thumb down his nose to get rid of the paint.

"Missed some," Starsky said softly and wiped off the rest. For one single moment, they were close enough to kiss, and Hutch wanted to, badly.

He wanted to turn back the clock four years to that glorious summer after his divorce was final. Like a stallion freed from the bridle, he'd kicked up his heels and dove headlong into the singles scene, only to find that the one person he was interested was Starsky.

Starsky had smiled at him, with come hither eyes, like in one of those bodice rippers Van used to read, and peeled off his jeans. Turned out Starsky had fewer inhibitions about sex that Hutch did.

They'd whiled away the summer worshiping each other's bodies, as well as every woman they could boff or entice into a mutually satisfactory threesome. Truth be told, the third person didn't really matter that much—they'd just find a willing lady so their coupling had some semblance of normalcy. The important part of the triangle was he and Starsky—sliding their hands over sculpted abs, biceps and pecs, kissing rounded asses and erect cocks. For a few glorious months, Hutch thought he was in heaven.

Then Starsky met Helen, and Hutch started seeing Abby—and as the saying went, they put away childish things.

Except, Hutch missed the intimacy. The pure, sensual hedonistic pleasure of joining with Starsky and letting the rest of the world fall away. They'd both agreed—pretended was more the word—that the summer of '72 had just been a fleeting thing, an exploration of the other side of the coin.

But it wasn't, and that damned yellow and black jersey brought the yearning back to the surface where it bubbled under Hutch's skin like champagne.

He waited through the spring to find just the right moment to reintroduce the topic to Starsky. Maybe what was needed were the long hot days of summer, instead. Or maybe, that release, that freedom that breaking from Van had given him.

He didn't know quite how to approach things. Just pucker up and kiss his partner? That was a definite starter, but where and how?

The Paul Muni special, perhaps? With a game of chess, and groping for dessert? Or a sweaty game of Horse with as many body slams as possible to liven things up—and bring things to a head, so to speak.

He kept his mind open for opportunities, waiting for just the right day and time. Some situations just couldn't be planned in advance. They had to be spontaneous.

April slid into May, and then June without movement on that particular front. Hutch resolved to be patient—it wasn't like he was estranged from his partner. They saw each other literally every day, even on their days off. They still touched, hands lingering on a belly for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and brushed shoulders when they walked. They still stood closer than close, either talking to Dobey or kicking back at Huggy's sharing french fries and a couple of beers. There were many times when Starsky would turn to Hutch and their faces would be so close that it would take no effort to lean in and kiss those full, pink lips. But Hutch did not. Because somehow, it wasn't the right time. Maybe the stars needed to be in alignment, or something?

He had to laugh, because really, what was he waiting for? It wasn't as if Starsky would freak out—they'd already done the 'deed'. In every possible position, for that matter. It had just been five years.

Five long years. And for the life of him, he couldn't remember why they had stopped. They'd stopped bowing to convention ages ago, and yet still kept up the pretense that they were horny, average joes who chased skirt and settled for casual sex.

Horny; that was true enough. Casual sex? With Starsky, it was anything but casual and non-committal. To hell with normalcy. To hell with convention. Hutch wanted stability, love and trust. Which he already had with Starsky.

He resolved to plant that kiss on Starsky's mouth on June fifteenth, directly in the middle of the month. He'd been patient for too long.

In Southern California, June is a month of contrasts—thick, gray, damp fog until noon, sunny afternoons where the temperature climbs to the 80's and then chilly evenings when the fog blows back in, swirling past streetlights like wispy ghosts in search of a house to haunt.

Hutch shivered, glad he'd packed a thermos of coffee and a blanket in the car. A stake-out on a cold dock in the middle of the night—one of those oh-so-special perks of police work. He and Starsky had been sitting in the car on Pier 17 for four nights in a row, with no sight of their suspect, or any of his colleagues. Starsky had already suggested that maybe--just maybe--their snitch had been wrong and there was no heroin distribution out of Pier 17. Hutch was willing to wager that while drugs were most certainly sold in many parts of Bay City, Pier 17 was not one of them. Quite probably, there were no drug sales on neighboring Piers 15 and 19, either. The whole area, no longer used for off-loading cargo from ships, was a virtual wasteland, deserted by even the hardiest homeless persons.

Which made spending twelve hours out there, in a car, such a boring prospect.

Until Starsky ran down the front stairs wearing his leather bombardier jacket, jeans--and the yellow and black soccer shirt.

Hutch felt his mouth go dry. For a split second, his heart seemed to stop, and then sped up so abruptly it felt like the cardiac muscle was going to jump out of his chest.

He'd missed that shirt, more than he could possibly imagine. Why hadn't Starsky worn it since March? Hell, it was just a shirt…

Hutch rubbed his damp palms on his pants legs, trying to work up enough saliva to kiss Starsky hard and fast.

Starsky pulled the passenger door open and bopped into the seat. "I got us some…"

Hutch leaned over, covering Starsky's mouth with his own. It was reverse rescue breathing, reviving Hutch and making him whole. They broke their own world record for longest kiss, but who was counting? Starsky kept making little moans that sent jolts of electricity straight to Hutch's cock, and surging against Hutch, clutching at his plaid shirt as if he wanted plaster himself the length of his partner's body but they were in the car, and he couldn't.

Hutch couldn't think—didn't think. He just let hormones and desire take over. He reveled in the warmth that was Starsky, pushing his hands up under Starsky's leather jacket to press his palms flat against the yellow and black shirt while kissing Starsky into the next month. It was so incredibly good.

Starsky thrust his tongue into Hutch's mouth, panting. Hutch sucked on that slippery firmness, half crazed and sure that he was going to come simply from kissing, something he hadn't done since he was sixteen.

His head spinning, Hutch dug his fingers into the muscles of Starsky's back, feeling the jut of his vertebrae moving against his wrists, and kept kissing. Every single kiss was a gift. Each was a prized jewel, and he wanted an entire necklace, to wrap around him on the lonely nights.

How long the kissing lasted was of no consequence, but finally, they both reluctantly slowed and then stopped. Starsky had curled his head against Hutch's neck and had one jeans-clad leg over the gap between the seats and between Hutch's knees. The other was curled up under him, and he was half kneeling to maintain his press against Hutch.

His cheek surrounded by a mass of curls, Hutch could feel Starsky laughing, his mouth touching Hutch's ear.

"What?" Hutch asked, content and completely happy. He didn't even care that the steering wheel was digging into his rib cage or that they were still parked in front of Starsky's house. It was after ten p.m. on a foggy night. Who could see them?

"Took you long enough," Starsky said, placing a kiss on his cheek before drawing back to sit on his folded leg.

"Me?" Hutch reared back so fast he nearly brained himself on the steamed up window. "I've been pl..plan… What are you talking about?"

"I was just waitin' for you to catch up, slowpoke," Starsky said with insufferable smugness, settling into the seat of the car. "You gonna drive? Johnson and Jimenez'll kill us if we're late relieving them."

Hutch glanced at the dashboard clock, annoyed. It was definitely time to get going. "Keep your shirt on!" he groused, even more annoyed. Because if there was one thing he really, really wanted, it was that yellow and black shirt off so that he could get at Starsky's fine chest. "You were waiting for me? What the hell for?"

Hutch started the car and hit the accelerator hard. The LTD seemed to leap forward and they roared down the hill to the intersection. So much for the local ordinance enforcing quiet after ten p.m. He stewed until the first stoplight, and then was forced to look over at Starsky. The streetlights were burned out on that corner, so Starsky was just a dark outline against the passenger window. "What were you waiting for?"

"You," Starsky said simply, laying his arm along the back of the seat. His fingers flicked against Hutch's neck where his hair grew long. "You were in…conflict. Me, I wasn't much better. We both had some losses that knocked the stuffing out of us and…it wasn't the right time to make a move, y'know?"

Talk about knocking the stuffing out of him. Starsky's little speech brought Hutch back down to earth faster than a popped balloon. Losses didn't even begin to describe the scope of what had happened. Two girlfriends. Two loves, both cut down in the beauty of their lives, less than four months apart. No wonder he'd been seeking love, wanting something that seemed hopelessly out of reach.

"Yeah," Hutch agreed, a little breathlessly. He drove onto the freeway, merging into the flow of cars with his eyes on the roadway to avoid looking at Starsky and breaking out in a sweat. "I kept—" He laughed, feeling both relief and a tad bitter. "I didn't think it was the right time either, but I'd look at you and…"

"Want to jump my bones?" Starsky finished for him.

A bit more crudely than Hutch might have said, but the sentiment was the same. "Something like that."

"And then I'd think about Terry and wonder exactly what she woulda said." Starsky trailed one finger down the slope of Hutch's shoulder, and pulled away, putting both hands in his lap.

"What would she have said?" Hutch asked, picturing Terry and Starsky. Her sunny, sweet face and short fluff of hair next to his much more angular, intense looks with his dark curls and amazingly beautiful eyes.

"She knew, y'know?" Starsky sounded distant, far further away than across the gap in the seats. "She told me that we—she and me, made great friends and we had fun in bed, but we weren't destiny. That we were…like some river bubbling over rocks and flowing over a falls. A day trip."

For a moment, Hutch thought maybe Starsky had tears in his eyes. Or maybe not, it was too dark to see. They weren't even all the way to Pier 17, and they'd run the gambit from lust to mourning in under ten minutes. He watched the See's candy truck in front of him, but just slid his hand over until it brushed the seam of Starsky's jeans. "A day trip, huh?"

"Terry said that you and me, we were different…" He chuffed a sort of mirthless laugh. "Too many he and me and her and us's here. You and me were different than Terry and me. That you and me were as deep and as vast as the ocean."

The car crested the off-ramp and turned, revealing the black ink of the Pacific at night about a mile off, past the tangle of piers and wharfs. Fog hovered over the water, obscuring the horizon and filtering the moonlight like a curtain. Hutch caught his breath, astonished at Terry Robert's insight. "She was right."

"Yeah." Starsky took his hand, squeezing once. "I still asked her to marry me."

"Because you were scared, Starsk, of everything that happened with her." _Hutch knew, had felt that fear_. With Starsky, and then with Gillian, too. Oddly, never with Van.

"Yeah. Didja feel that way about Gillian? Scared and overwhelmed, because she gave you something powerful inside?"

"Gillian lifted me up and twisted me around inside so much I wasn't sure what was going on," Hutch admitted soberly. He paused to navigate the narrow, confusing streets that led to the piers. "You saw that, when I froze that day in the firefight."

"You were in love with love," Starsky said gently, humming the tune to the Beatle's classic.

" _All you need is love… altogether now, love is all you need…_ " Hutch sang along. " _Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time…_ "

" _It's easy…_ " Starsky warbled. "But it ain't easy."

"Nope." Hutch breathed out, wondering how exactly they'd come this far without acknowledging this immeasurable truth. That no matter how many women had come between them, he and Starsky were meant to be together. "I'm not sure that I will ever see Gillian—all that she and I meant to each other, had together--with clear eyes."

"We're all…" Starsky swirled his hands around, sketching one of those kaleidoscope images TV shows used to show confusion. "Too involved in what's happening at the time to see what we got, or need, or really want…"

"And right now, we'd better table this discussion fast," Hutch said, clicking off his headlights as the car approached a non-descript sedan parked in the lee of the main Pier 17 building. "There's Johnson and Jimenez."

Starsky shot him a look that didn't reveal a thing and nodded. "I'll mosey over and get report from them. You gonna park on the right or the left?"

"Let's change things up a little." Hutch wasn't surprised that he had no interest whatsoever in the stakeout, it had been a boring four days, and he really needed to work things out with Starsky. "The right."

"You got it, pard'." Starsky slid out of the car and melded into the shadows immediately. With his jacket zipped up, even the yellow stripes of his shirt weren't visible. Like a magician, one second he was there, and the next invisible.

Parking where he'd said he would, Hutch scanned the vacant pier. Other than the immense building to his left, an abandoned cargo container out near the edge of the wooden dock was the only hiding place of any sort. All the freighters and ocean going vessels were moored farther down the coast at newer and better-maintained piers. Even the wharf, a long wooden platform extending out into the water, was worse for wear, missing planks and railings. Anyone foolhardy enough to walk out there for free fishing risked the possibility of falling into the cold water below. There were no fisherman, no pedestrians or even sea birds. Not a sign of any drug dealers.

No sign of Starsky, either, and it had been almost five minutes.

Hutch strained his eyes, trying to see Starsky in the foggy, indistinct darkness and his heart sped up when he heard the rumble of a car engine. It was just Johnson pulling the sedan away from the curb. The car drove down Jefferson toward Sepulveda.

Materializing out the mist like a will o'wisp, Starsky eased the passenger door open and sat down. "It's cold!" He shook his curls, and Hutch could feel the dampness invade the car.

"Drink some of the coffee." Hutch held out the thermos, heartened when their fingers brushed around the edge of the plaid cylinder.

"You get the good stuff?" Starsky poured fragrant brew into the small plastic cup-lid, inhaling the aroma with a grin.

"For you, it's the slop from the old pot in the squadroom," Hutch said loftily. "I have my own thermos with roasted Columbian beans."

Starsky sipped from his cup, his eyes, shadowed in the dim car interior, staring straight into Hutch's. "Must've given me the wrong one, cause this stuff was made in heaven by angels."

"Damn, then we'll have to share." Hutch watched Starsky's lips purse on the edge of the red cup and curl under as he drank. He knew the feel of those lips like his own, knew their taste and their shape—and wanted to renew the acquaintance immediately. "What'd the other team say?"

"Jimenez is bitchin', as usual, that it's cold, it's boring, it's lonely and even the seagulls avoid the area," Starsky recounted.

"Sounds just like you!"

"You could go on the road with an act like that, Steve Martin."

"And get real small," Hutch drew out the words like the comedian did, prompting fizzy laughter from Starsky.

"Did your cat buy three thousand dollars worth of cat toys?" Starsky chuckled, quoting more of Martin's act.

"Well…" Hutch began and Starsky chimed in on the catch phrase, "Excuuuuuse me." They both laughed, holding hands, relaxed and freed of whatever had suddenly held Hutch tight.

"Don't think the whippos are peddling their wares down on this dock, do you?" Starsky wiped his eyes, still snickering from time to time.

He'd unzipped his jacket at some point and Hutch could see the repeating stripes of yellow and black banding his belly. Hutch stifled a groan, his cock filling with astonishing swiftness. He was glad the darkness would hide it from view. "I'm beginning to think that the drug trade has dried up all together in Bay City and moved to somewhere with a livelier nightlife—like Vegas."

"Definitely livelier there." Starsky screwed the lid back on the thermos, rooting through Hutch's bag of snacks. "You brought vegetables? Hutch! On a stake out?" He held up a carrot in outrage.

"Just because we're sitting on our butts for twelve hours doesn't give us license to ruin our cardio-vascular health with cholesterol and high salt," Hutch said virtuously, knowing it would wind Starsky up.

"Says you," Starsky harrumphed, settling back. "Good thing I brought provisions."

"Where'd you put them?" Hutch glanced at his partner. It wasn't just the yellow and black shirt that looked painted on to his curvy, masculine body. The jeans were so tight they bordered on indecent. He'd noticed, more than once.

"Ta-da!" Starsky pulled a lunchbox-sized bag of Lay's potato chips out of his jacket pocket. "I got two, one in each pocket, in case you wanted some, but I guess you don't."

"I can eat just one." Hutch held out his hand, amused when Starsky put two chips into his palm.

"It's _'nobody can eat just one'_ ," Starsky reminded him of the commercial jingle. "Back to the job, Johnson said it was quiet as a tomb."

"Lovely," Hutch said. "Radio silence unless the buy is going down, and nothing to do for twelve hours." He fished a carrot out of the bag and crunched on the end. They ate in silence for a long stretch of time. Hutch watched the fog curl and bunch around the cargo container and then flatten to nothiness.

"You remember what you said earlier?" Hutch asked into the darkness that was beginning to bleed into his psyche.

"Hmm?" Starsky looked over at him and Hutch had to reach out, touch the jut of his cheekbone to reassure himself that Starsky really was there beside him.

"That we're too involved in what's happening to see what we need or really want," Hutch whispered, curving his palm against Starsky's cheek. "I know exactly what I want, bumblebee."

"Me?" Starsky's voice was about an octave higher than usual.

"You're my ocean, Starsk." Hutch leaned into to kiss him, to brush his lips on Starsky's, and know he was loved. "You surround me, you buoy me up, I want to dive in and drink…"

"Oh, babe," Starsky said with infinite gentleness. "You're a poet." He completed the kiss, closing his arms around Hutch's torso so tightly that Hutch almost forgot to breathe. "I still wanna know what changed your mind today."

"That shirt." Hutch pushed up the lower edge to get to the little line of fur that connected Starsky's bellybutton with the lower, very interesting parts of him that were unfortunately discretely covered with Levi's 501s. "It's…captivating."

"Didn't have anything else clean t'wear," Starsky murmured, busy with Hutch's ear lobes and collarbone.

He was pressing kisses on every patch of bare skin he could reach, and it tickled. Hutch shivered, a delightful zing chasing down his spine and causing goosebumps. "We have been working a lot of overtime. Thank the Lord for all those dirty blue t-shirts—you ought to wear this one all the time." He rimmed Starsky's bellybutton and discovered his reward. Starsky's erection was apparently attempting to burrow right out of the button holes on his jeans.

"You'd be on me like a honeybee on a flower." Starsky pushed out of reach with a sigh of reluctance. "We are on duty!"

"Nobody around for miles," Hutch pouted. It was as if they'd reversed their usual roles. Starsky as disciplinarian, and he ready to throw out the rule book.

"The thing is…" Starsky trailed off, squirming around until he'd braced his feet on the floor of the car and lifted his butt off the seat. With a lot of grunting and scrabbling, he forced the strained buttons out of their holes and slid his jeans down to his thighs.

Starsky didn't have any underwear on. Hutch knew he rarely wore any on stakeouts because that made it easier to pee into a bottle. Still, the sight of his swollen cock, standing up like an eager recruit, was awe-inspiring.

"Wha—what'd you have in mind?" Hutch asked, dry mouthed. He started to touch the tempting target but held back. Starsky was right, they were supposed to be watching for imaginary drug dealers.

"I think…" Starsky said, through gritted teeth. He was obviously on edge and about to explode. "That if one of us…uh…took initiative, and the other one…?"

"Kept watch? We could do both?" Hutch was ready to climb out and lasso Orion's Belt if that would let him get his hands on Starsky's pulchritude.

"It's instinctual," Starsky agreed.

He gasped when Hutch touched the crown of his cock with one finger. Hutch closed his hand around the length with a hiss. Starsky's skin was hot and pulsing with life. He yearned to put his mouth on that heated flesh, but didn't dare. This was already dangerous, even though he didn't expect a single criminal for two miles in any direction to stroll by.

"Huu-utch," Starsky hiccupped an exhale. He faced forward, as if looking out on the fog-shrouded wharf, but his eyes cut sideways, to Hutch. "Don't stop."

"Hadn't planned to." Hutch cupped his other hand under Starsky's scrotum, manipulating it gently like worry balls. His own genitals jumped up eagerly, ready to join the party. He was tempted to try wringing himself dry in tandem with Starsky, but that took too much brain-power to work out when he had his partner's penis in his hand. Instead, Hutch quickly licked his palm and slid it rapidly down Starsky's length.

Starsky bucked, sucking in air like a drowning victim and stuffed his fist in his mouth to keep from shouting.

"You like?" Hutch laughed.

Wordlessly, Starsky nodded, the whites of his eyes surprisingly bright in the dark. Hutch licked his hand again, repeating the procedure, and Starsky came fast and hard, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

"Oh, man," Starsky said in shaky voice. "Didn't see a single pusher, but I did see heaven."

"Same angel who made you that coffee, huh?" Hutch asked happily.

"He's a good guy." Starsky smiled. He ran one hand up Hutch's long thigh to his groin. "Must be running a fever, though, I can feel the heat through his fly."

Hutch closed his eyes, wanting to stop so he could keep this moment forever. Fun, easy and sexy as hell. So much for angels, he wanted a little devil going down on him.

"I may have to examine you," Starsky said mischievously. "See if there's some kind of…swelling that needs to be taken care of."

"Where'd you get a medical degree?" Hutch asked casually as Starsky began the tricky work of pulling up his own jeans before he applied himself to Hutch's.

"It's more of an honorary degree from the school of hard..." Starsky had just managed to get semi-decent when Hutch saw movement on the edge of the dock.

Hutch froze, motioning Starsky to silence. He stared out the windshield but their heavy breathing, as well as the colder air outside, had fogged up the glass. Starsky very slowly wound down his window, letting in a waft of damp. Far out in the bay, a foghorn blared, echoed moments later by a second one with a descending two note call.

Nothing happened for so long that Hutch wondered if he'd imagined something. Just as he was about to jump out of his skin, a dog barked loudly, jumping at some sea bird, and raced down the length of the pier toward Jefferson.

"Damn!" Starsky deflated against the car seat. "Musta been under the dock and scrambled up on top."

"Just as long as it's not some damned addict with a Saturday night special, I don't care…" Hutch wiped sweat off his upper lip, and was surprised when Starsky leaned in to kiss him. They lingered, deepening the kiss until Hutch thought Starsky was going to suck his tonsils right out.

They were still lip-to-lip when Starsky pushed a hand between them and slid Hutch's zipper down in one smooth movement. With his tongue pressed against Hutch's, Starsky slid his hand into Hutch's boxers and freed his cock.

Hutch had one fleeting thought that neither of them was paying much attention to the vacant pier when Starsky squeezed him hard enough to make him squeal. Hutch broke the kiss, groaning when Starsky fisted him, the rapid friction of skin on skin like white lightning that ignited every single nerve ending in his body. "Starsk…" Hutch gasped, forcing himself to keep his eyes open to give some semblance that he was keeping watch.

"C'mon, babe," Starsky coaxed. "Show me what you got…"

He tapped one finger on the crown and Hutch sucked air, feeling his balls tighten in anticipation. That finger tapped once more, and then Starsky fisted Hutch's cock, tugging just a little on the balls. Hutch orgasmed, splattering semen on the dashboard.

"Zebra Three!" dispatch called, shocking them both. "Zebra Three, suspect has been apprehended on Pier 11, carrying cocaine and heroin."

Starsky started to laugh, holding his sticky hand up as if presenting evidence. Hutch couldn't help it; he dissolved into laughter, unable to pick up the mic and reply.

"Zebra Three?" dispatch called again. "It's Mabel. Starsky? Hutchinson?"

"Answer her!" Starsky hissed, grabbing a napkin from Hutch's snack bag to wipe himself off.

"Uh—" Hutch said weakly into the police band, valiantly trying to stifle chuckles. "Zebra Three here, we heard. Are we off stake-out?"

"Are you giggling?" Mabel asked.

Starsky grabbed the mike. "Just tellin' jokes to pass the time. Should we help with mop up on Pier 11 or patrol the area?"

"Watch commander says to go back to your usual beat for the rest of your shift," Mabel said.

Starsky snickered when he hung up the microphone. "Is that coitus interruptus?"

"Happens all the time, doesn't it?" Hutch sighed, halfway between amused and embarrassed. But he wouldn't have changed things for the world. "Got your bee shirt all dirty."

"Guess I'll have to wash it." Starsky looked down at the stain on the lower half of the shirt, obviously trying for wide-eyed innocence and failing by a mile. "Tomorrow?"

"As long as it's dry by tomorrow night," Hutch said. "We may have to have that talk about the birds and the bees."

"And those educated fleas."

FIN

 _And that's why birds do it, bees do it  
Even educated fleas do it  
Let's do it, let's fall in love…_

Cole Porter


End file.
